Unlikely Alliances
by madstoryteller999
Summary: Voldemort is the Dark Lord. Harry Potter is the Boy-Who-Lived. Tom Riddle is merely a power-hungry boy belonging to the past. Or is he? When Harry is attacked by dementors before 5th year, he ultimately sets off an extraordinary series of events that even Dumbledore could never have predicted. What will happen when Voldemort steps off the field to make way for his predecessor, Tom?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"Where is your mum?"

Harry sat silently on the swing, refusing to answer.

"Where is your mum, _Potter_?"

The boys around Dudley began laughing hysterically, Piers Polkiss's high pitched cackle ringing sharply in his ears.

_Where's your mum Potter?_

_Where is she?_

_Your mum, Potter, where is sh—_

"Is she dead?"

Harry froze, jaw tightening in acute restraint.

"Is she _dead_!" Dudley jeered once more, focused on impressing his friends. Harry closed his eyes and counted to ten. _One. Two. Three…_

"Is _mummy _dead, _Potter_?"

Harry didn't even remember pulling out his wand. The next second, he had crossed the yards between them, his holly wand at that pale thick neck.

Dudley immediately froze, adam's apple bobbing under the blunt edge. His friends quieted, the jeering laughs dying out abruptly in the abandoned playground. The creaking of the still moving swing could he heard dimly in the background.

"Y-you can't do that. You can't do this stuff outside of school," Dudley muttered nervously, his pasty skin paling even further as he darted frightened looks at his cousin's face.

"I'm not allowed to," Harry agreed softly, a strange calm washing over him as he leaned closer to whisper in Dudley's ear. "But how do you know if that's going to stop me?"

A grim smile that didn't reach his eyes decorated his face as Dudley was unable to answer.

"Everyone has a breaking point," Harry announced to his audience, a wild sort of recklessness in his actions as he smirked at them, "And this…well, this just happens to be mine."

As Harry moved his wand, preparing to transfigure his only cousin into something awful—preferably small and without the capabilities of defending itself—the skies began to darken ominously, thunder clouds swooping in where previously there had only been sunlight.

"P-Potter!" Dudley yelled hoarsely as his friends fled, abandoning him, "What are you doing? Stop it! Stop doing this freaky stuff! GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME!"

"It's not me," Harry muttered, pulling his wand away from Dudley to examine his surroundings as the skies continued to turn a deep grey charcoal.

"Stop it, Potter!" Dudley whimpered, batting away at invisible hands, "It's so _cold_…_Dark_…"

Harry's eyes widened with realization.

"Come on, Dudley," Harry encouraged, all previous ill-feelings forgotten. "We need to run. _Now_."

For some obscure reason—as he had never done so in the past—Dudley listened to Harry. Dudley began flat out sprinting, Harry himself following closely behind. They both turned into a dark alley decorated with colorful graffiti, both realizing too late that it was a dead end.

"P-Potter." Dudley shuddered as he crumpled in on himself, face paler than parchment.

Harry watched detachedly as his cousin passed out, before turning to face the first dementor.

* * *

"Rise," the Dark Lord commanded icily, watching as the blonde head rose once more to serve his will.

It was almost _too _easy.

The Dark Lord knew very well that Lucius—the once faithful servant who had served the cause with a fervid zeal shared by many—had grown soft over the years. He had become docile, believing his master dead, and doted upon his wife and son.

But he had made a mistake, the dark wizard thought with a macabre smile, and now Lord Voldemort had returned. How to make an unfaithful man serve? Why, by threatening to take away what he holds most precious.

Voldemort smirked as he eyed the pale aristocratic woman his servant had married, and the treasured heir he valued above all else.

Taking in the similar blonde hair, and characteristic gray eyes, Voldemort narrowed his eyes contemplatively. _Would he serve in his father's place?_

The blonde swallowed harshly, gray eyes flickering with barely concealed panic as he felt the vermillion eyes rest on him.

_Too weak._

Voldemort shifted his gaze, dismissing the family with a sneer. They were so weak and pathetic. Worthless.

The urge to kill them all tore at his mind in a haze of red, but Voldemort forcefully restrained himself, nails digging in as he fought to retain some semblance of sanity.

"Severus," Voldemort hissed, his snake-like eyes moving away from the blonde as he moved down the long line of assembled death eaters.

"My lord," Severus answered in a practiced monotone. The potions master bowed in front of him, lightly brushing his lips against the edge of his master's robes, before rising once again.

"And what news do you bring me, Severus?" Voldemort questioned dangerously. Last time, his slippery servant had brought nothing of relevance.

"The ministry plans to interfere at Hogwarts, my lord," the potions master replied curtly, black eyes unreadable.

Voldemort froze in his pacing.

"They plan to reinstate the headmaster with Dolores Umbridge, one of the minister's loyal lackeys," Severus stated slowly, the sarcasm in his voice light but noticeable, "As to why such a change is being implemented, the minister believes that Dumbledore has been lying about your return, and is in actuality trying to garner public support for an impending battle over the minister's office. He believes that removing Dumbledore from his position at Hogwarts will eliminate him as competition."

A slow insane smile curved across the Dark Lord's lips.

The Malfoy heir made a strangled noise in the corner of the room.

* * *

"Expecto Patronum!" Harry cried, but nothing but a few wisps came out of his wand. He watched helplessly as the dementor began sucking at his cousin's face, another coming closer to his own.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" Harry screamed. He repeated the words with the air of a dying man as the dementor neared, bringing back painful memories of screams and green lights.

Happy thoughts, Harry reminded himself desperately as the dementor began sucking from him. He had to think of happy things. Images of Hermione and Ron and Hogwarts flashed through his head, but even as he continued whispering the saving words, no shining stag flew from his wand.

The dementor came closer, drawing more energy from him, and Harry's knees trembled before collapsing, bringing him to the floor. Hermione. Ron. Hogwarts. Warmth. Friendship…

"_Expecto Patronum_," Harry gasped, eyes unseeing as black consumed his vision.

And that's when he felt something stir at the back of his mind.

* * *

"My loyal servants…" Lord Voldemort hissed, but paused when he felt a disturbance within the barriers of his mind.

Immediately suspicious, he pressed his long fingered hands to his head and closed his eyes, exploring the contents of his mind. The presence in his mind seemed to grow stronger, radiating powerful waves of emotion. As one particular wave hit him head on, Voldemort was able to identify what it was: desperation.

But who would be desperate enough to enter the mind of the Dark Lord?

A diabolical sneer twisted itself across Voldemort's thin lips.

As a sense of vengeance began to consume him, Voldemort followed the presence ruthlessly, set on finding the source and crushing it, no doubt sending the mind on the other end into insanity. Greedily, he approached the pulsating source, his breaths quickening as he did so, and gathered as much magic as he could in order to utterly obliterate the other presence from his mind. However, as soon as he released the magic, rather than attacking the other presence, it seemed to harmlessly entwine with it.

Voldemort's red eyes flew open in rage, his teeth bared in a primitive form of lividity, before he felt the combined magics of his own and the alien presence begin to suck him into the intrusive vortex.

The last thing he saw were a pair of bright green eyes, before he lost consciousness.

* * *

Harry's eyes widened as he saw an unfamiliar creature spring from his wand. Indeed, it was not the stag he was so proud of, but something distinctly larger…fiercer…

It was a basilisk. His memories had created…_this_?

A frighteningly familiar loud scream of fury thundered throughout his head, and Harry cringed, back bending violently and unnaturally, as he pressed his hands tightly to his head. Black spots danced sporadically across his vision, before his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

The last thing he saw were a furious pair of blood red eyes.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"My lord, my lord!" a deep husky voice cried passionately, rising above the voices of hundreds of others.

Harry slowly became aware of his surroundings, the chill of the cold floor he laid on swiftly penetrating through his thin clothes. Hands brushed softly along his body, pulling worriedly at his clothing, while words danced carelessly in the background.

"Do not touch him, Bellatrix," a crisp voice hissed immediately.

"Don't tell me what to do, Rodolphus," the woman replied, her tone rough and wild.

Bellatrix? Rodolphus? The names resounded dimly in his head, calling forth a vague sense of recognition.

"Madame Lestrange," a monotonous voice intoned calmly from behind Harry, "Perhaps you should follow your husband's advice."

Why did that voice sound so familiar?

"I am his most faithful," the husky voice shrieked, panting heavily, "His most valuable! He will honor me for being the first to assist him!"

"Indeed," the monotonous voice retorted silkily, "just as you assisted him so loyally in Azkaban. I have stayed faithfully by the fool Dumbledore's side for over a decade at his command, and gathered priceless information for our Lord. Tell me, Lestrange, after his return, what new information did _you _have to offer him?"

A wordless scream of rage resounded throughout the large ballroom-like room they were in, but Harry was too infuriated to acknowledge it as anger pumped dangerously through his veins. He could recognize that derisive, sneering voice anywhere: it was _Snape_. So the evil git was a Death Eater after all, despite the trust that Dumbledore had bestowed on him!

The anger threatened to consume him, and Harry was suddenly filled with the urge to kill the potions master. To kill everyone in the room. To burn them all to ashes, slowly and painfully…

_What the hell is wrong with me? _Harry thought in horror to himself. It felt as though his mind was being attacked by invisible forces, a furious battle between violent emotions, incoherent screams, and soundless voices. The urge to just lash out and _kill_ was almost overwhelming.

Grimacing, Harry forced himself to calm down, though his anger remained, icy and deadly despite being kept under control. The Death Eaters (he had now identified Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange as such) had called him 'my Lord', so that meant…

Struggling, Harry opened his eyes and took in his surroundings, the high arched ceiling, the exquisite chandeliers, the black marble floor, and the legion of death eaters assembled before him.

"My Lord," the husky voice cried, voice thick with joy and relief. "Oh, my Lord…"

Harry turned and was met with the vision of a tall, wild-haired woman with heavy-lidded eyes. The female bent, prostrating before him, her chest heaving as she kissed the ends of his robes as one would a lover.

Harry felt his mouth curl automatically in disgust, and before he could help himself, ripped the ends of his robes away from the wild woman. At first, Harry worried that his rash actions signified that he was indeed not the Dark Lord, and in actuality, someone quite decidedly else. However, this appeared to be somewhat normal behavior as none of the death eaters showed any sign of shock.

"My lord," the monotonous voice stated without any semblance of emotion. Harry's red eyes immediately widened as his glance shot to the black-haired potions master, before narrowing dangerously.

"Severus…" Harry hissed, falling more than easily into the part. He had received enough nightmares about the Dark Lord to know how he acted in front of his followers, though he had never seen him interact with the Potions Master before.

Snape appeared to hesitate. "Is there anything you happen to require, my lord? A potion perhaps?"

Harry snarled, enjoying the barely noticeable look of discomfort in the emotionless man's eyes. "When I require your services, Severus, I shall tell you. Do not presume to know my mind."

The dark-haired wizard immediately bowed in repentance. "Of course, my lord."

Ignoring him, Harry surveyed the legion of death eaters before him. Should he turn them over to Dumbledore? After all, they were all so conveniently gathered here…

After a few seconds of uncharacteristic, pensive thought, Harry decided to wait. If he got rid of them immediately, not only would he be found out, but new people would just step up to fulfill the empty roles. Even Harry wasn't naïve enough to believe that getting rid of the Death Eaters would get rid of the Dark Lord's ideology.

With a sharp tilt of his chin, Harry dismissed the black-clothed men and women wordlessly, watching with narrowed vermillion eyes as they immediately dissipated in black mists. The Malfoys inclined their heads, before retreating further into the manor.

He waited a few moments after their disappearances, before conjuring a large mirror to look at himself.

Eyes harsh in their surveying, he took in his new tall, thin form: the pale blue skin, the sharp nails, the hairless head, and the flared snake-like nostrils. Strangely unaffected, Harry then met his own gaze in the mirror.

The red eyes glared back at him.

* * *

Voldemort hissed as a bright light seeped through his closed eyelids, forcefully bringing him back to the land of consciousness.

He immediately sat up, verdant green eyes narrowed in suspicion as he examined the back alley he was in, water dripping against the pavement in an odd staccato.

A moan reached his ears, and Voldemort's attention was diverted to the figure lying beside him: a pasty, overweight boy, with pale blonde hair that rivaled even the Malfoys' in its lack of color. The boy groaned loudly once more, before opening his eyes to reveal fish-like blue orbs.

As soon as he saw Voldemort, his fish-like eyes widened in sheer panic. "Mum…mum…" the boy whimpered, curling in on himself, "Get him away from me…Take him away…P-P-Potter…Go away…leave me alone…."

_Potter?_

Not knowing what he would see, and yet somehow expecting it as well, Voldemort's eyes widened as he turned to look at his reflection in a puddle. Instead of familiar red eyes meeting his gaze, it was a pair of vivid evergreen orbs, glowing brightly behind a pair of large glasses from a face that, although fairly pale, was still quite human.

Voldemort let out a roar of rage, and the flickering lamps lighting the dim alley exploded in a fountain of sparks. On the floor, the fat boy whimpered and cringed, protectively covering his face from the falling shards of glass.

He was in the body of the Boy-Who-Lived, the school boy who had managed to escape him year after year; the boy whom he had failed to kill.

Voldemort contemplated bashing his head in against the stone wall, merely for the sake of killing the stupid boy once and for all, but then decided against it. Despite his horcrux-induced immortality, he didn't know what would happen if he lost his hold on this form; he had no desire to spend countless more years roaming as a powerless spirit. This form, although that of his despised enemy and disgustingly vulnerable to mortal injury, was better than even that.

In fact, as he contemplated his position further, he realized that being in the Boy-Who-Lived's body was greatly beneficial, if only to manipulate the fool Dumbledore and his light followers to his own advantage.

A manipulative smirk on his face, he took hold of one of the other boy's legs and dragged him down the alley, towards the neat, orderly house he had seen while invading the whimpering boy's thoughts.

It was only later that he thought to wonder as to where Potter had gone, if he was no longer in this body with him.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"Where have you been, you awful boy!" the horsey woman shrieked in a shrill tone, her pale brown eyes wide with rage as she glanced at him. The plastic smile that had decorated her face when she had opened the door had quickly morphed into a look of utter hatred and revulsion.

Voldemort dropped the fat boy flat on the doorstep with a resounding thump, recognizing the unattractive woman to be the Boy-Who-Lived's aunt. This was the one who had fueled the protective wards keeping the Boy-Who-Lived safe from his grasp?

"Petunia," a voice bellowed from inside the house, "Who is it?"

"Vernon! Vernon!" the woman screamed, finally ceasing her glaring at Voldemort to see the state her son was in. "Our poor Dudleykins! He's _dying_!"

A wordless exclamation resounded in response to the horse-like woman's statement, and a few seconds later, a grossly overweight man with a face that resembled a walrus stormed down the narrow hall to the entrance, his face purple with rage.

Voldemort would have continued smirking at the sight before him, if his collar hadn't immediately been seized by that very large purple-faced man, and his back slammed against the wall.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HIM, FREAK?" the walrus faced man snarled, spittle flying through his clenched teeth.

"Unhand me at once, you filthy muggle!" Voldemort hissed, all plans of impersonating Potter gone from his mind at the moment. As he struggled to get free, he realized with a dark scowl that being in the body of a scrawny fifteen year old was serving him a great disadvantage.

Luckily though, the power of his magic hadn't lessened in this body and he felt it gather protectively around him…which led Voldemort to wonder if it was his own magic that had been transferred during the body swap, or if Potter's had stayed all the while and was now the entity responding to his current needs.

He would contemplate the issue at a later date.

In one quick movement, Voldemort released the wand that had been temporarily tucked in his boot (well, Potter's boot) and pressed it threateningly against the older man's neck.

"If you know what's good for you, you will let go of me immediately." the Dark Lord threatened, green eyes shining brightly with an uncanny resemblance to a certain unforgivable curse.

Voldemort noted with surprise that while a desire to kill the muggle in front of him was still present, it wasn't the previous insatiable urge that had infected his mind while in his own body. It seemed that when he had been transferred into Potter's body, his sanity had been returned to him as well.

This realization, in turn, made Voldemort wonder if Potter was indeed in his old body, and with his previous state of insanity.

A rough shake brought him out of his contemplations, and Voldemort's temper increased as he saw the walrus sneer in front of him. "Do you think I'm an idiot? You can't do _that _stuff when you're here for the summer. It's not allowed, boy. Your freak show school doesn't allow it."

The filthy muggle, Voldemort realized in disgruntlement, was right. The wand in his hand, though it felt just as right as his own did (and he didn't want to contemplate that sentiment any further), still belonged to a fifteen year old body regardless of the older mind that inhabited it. Thus, it still had the Trace.

If he wanted to infiltrate Dumbledore's ranks, having the Killing Curse on this wand—as could easily be revealed by Prior Incantato—would be detrimental to his ambitious plans.

But Voldemort had other methods of achieving what he desired.

Smiling charmingly, Tom pulled back his wand with an apologetic frown.

"Please excuse my previous misdemeanor, Uncle Vernon. I do not know what overcame me."

* * *

Harry shifted through the pages rapidly in desperation, red eyes unhinged. The screams were getting intolerable, the urge to kill quickly becoming harder and harder to resist.

_How the hell did he make it stop_?

Long pale nails pressed hard into the sides of his bald head, and he doubled over, panting due to the effort it took to restrain himself. Voldemort was insane. Utterly, and completely insane. Harry was no longer shocked by the Dark Lord's habitual killing of two to three death eaters every meeting; if anything, he was impressed that the Dark Lord possessed that much restraint.

Harry cursed violently in parseltongue, venting his frustration at both the world and his current predicament.

"_Master…_"

Harry froze, suddenly aware of the reptilian body crawling up his tall form and slipping to rest across his shoulders.

"_Nagini_."

"_Master…What frustrates you so?" _the malevolent snake hissed, its strong body winding slowly across his neck. Harry resisted the urge to forcibly rip off the monster— the monster he had seen rip so many throats out in his visions—away from the vulnerable area.

"_Nagini, you have always been faithful, haven't you_?" Harry hissed coldly, stroking the snake's head with rigid fingers that longed to strangle it. The serpent, as much as he loathed it, could help.

"_Always, Master…" _the loyal snake replied, "_Your horcrux…Your vessel…I serve only you._"

Harry's hand stilled on the rough head. "_Horcrux_?"

The snake bowed its head. "_Vessel of one sixth of your soul…I serve the noble house of Slytherin…_"

The serpent held part of Voldemort's soul? The soul in Voldemort's body was mutilated into six parts? Was that why Voldemort was so inhuman? So…insane?

He got up from the chair he had been sitting in and stalked through the entirety of the Malfoy library, browsing the shelves for soul magic. Was it possible?

Harry examined the contents on the large towering shelves with sharp eyes, before stopping on one particular book that looked to have recently been paged through. Ignoring Nagini's confused hisses, Harry pulled out the heavy tome, turning it over to read the inscribed title.

"Secrets of the Darkest Art"

He set it on the table, opening the large book with difficulty. Dust floated through the air, but Harry waved it away with a burst of wandless magic. He paged through the book for what seemed like hours, before stopping dead on one page.

_Of the Horcrux: The Wickedest of Magical Inventions_

_A horcrux is a powerful object that contains the soul fragment of a witch or wizard, ultimately tying their immortal soul to the mortal plane. Horcruxes allow these magical beings to prolong their existence in the living world; even if the witch or wizard dies, their existence is bound to the mortal plane through the horcrux, permitting them to be resurrected through further magical means._

_A horcrux can only be created through an act of evil, or more accurately, the supreme act of evil: murder. The act of murder, true cold-blooded murder, enables a witch or wizard to split their soul, thus also enabling the creation of a horcrux._

Feeling sick, Harry looked down at the book once again.

_However, despite the apparent immortality Horcruxes grant, they can be destroyed just as all life can. By destroying the objects housing the soul fragments—of which fiendfyre, basilisk venom, and the killing curse are various methods—one can ultimately kill any witch or wizard who possesses horcruxes. After being destroyed, these soul fragments cannot be retrieved, unless through the process of Reconciliation._

Harry moved further down the page, raptly absorbed.

_The process of mutilating one's soul can only be reversed through Reconciliation. A witch or wizard must feel true pain and regret for the actions he or she has committed, for only then will the soul be able to heal from the crippling damage it has been dealt. _

_* It is believed that through the process of Reconciliation, a wizard or witch is able to retrieve soul fragments that have been previously destroyed and sent to limbo (neither in the Living World nor in the After Life) and bring them back to the mortal plane to become part of the original soul once again_.

There was a moment of utter silence, where Harry's deep inhalations completely ceased and a pin drop could have been heard.

Then, closing his eyes, Harry fought the irrational urges that strived to overcome him and forced himself to feel the small, almost unnoticeable, sliver of humanity remaining in him.

* * *

"Thus as you can see," Tom continued, concluding his explanation with perfect intonation and poise, "I have ultimately saved your son's soul by using magic tonight. I produced the Patronus charm in order to prevent him harm from the Dementors, not to cause him any."

The Dursleys stared at him slack-jawed, momentarily deaf to the whimpering boy on the floor. Then the female Dursley broke the silence, whimpering in breathy sobs as she moved to comfort her 'poor Dudders'.

"Get out, boy," the older man snarled, as he too went to coddle his blubbering son along with his sobbing wife. "Go to your room."

Tom bowed his head in acquiescence, only to be ignored by the entire family. Hiding his smirk under a down turned head, Tom climbed the stair case and walked to the door at the very end of the hall—presumably his as it was the only without a sign stating 'Dudley's Room'.

Unsure of what he would see, he pushed open the door to find a small, cramped room filled with shelves of miscellaneous broken items. In the very corner, was a small cot with a thin, worn blanket and a flat pillow. Peeling wall paper decorated the walls, and the only other item of interest in the room was a large trunk with the inscription 'Property of Harry Potter'. Ironically, it was the only thing in pristine condition, shined and glistening as though it alone had been treated with great care.

Was this the life of the Boy-Who-Lived?

Tom sneered, ignoring the small feeling of déjà vu that rose in his chest. Seeing no closet or wardrobe of any sort, he walked to the chest sitting at the center of room and took out a pair of pajama pants and an undershirt with holes to sleep in. After pulling them on, he neatly folded the previous clothes he had been wearing—which happened to be dirty with mud and water—and slid into the meager cot to prepare for sleep.

However, as soon as his eyes shut, he experienced only a scarce moment of blank peacefulness before his mind was catapulted elsewhere.

* * *

Harry blinked, consciousness slowly returning to him. Staggering to his feet, he found himself standing on what appeared to be a black platform in the middle of nowhere. Wincing at the massive pain in his head he reflexively rubbed the place where his scar had been, unknowing that with that one simple gesture, he gave away exactly who he was.

"Potter?" a cold, strangely familiar voice intoned behind him. Turning abruptly, Harry was gifted with the strange sight of seeing his own face glaring at him.

"Voldemort." the Boy-Who-Lived replied finally, tone equally as cold. It was then, with a sickening sense of realization, that they finally comprehended the twisted situation they were both in, the pained grimaces on both their faces quite telling.

"Someone hates us very much up there," Harry noted dryly, breaking the silence. The other's green eyes flashed red as he circled his former body like a vulture searching for weakness in its prey.

"What have you done to my body, _Potter_?" Tom hissed tightly, his words barely tottering between English and pure parseltongue. Harry looked down at himself in confusion, before realizing that where there had previously been pale blue skin, unnaturally long limbs, and skin and bones, there was now a tall, lean form with pale, flawless, white skin. It took Harry another second (he really was suffering from quite a massive headache) to realize that he had succeeded in uniting Voldemort's fractured soul parts, and that this was the physical manifestation of such an accomplishment.

"Why?" Harry diverted with his typical lack of tact, "Upset that I make this body more attractive than you ever possibly could?"

Harry found himself being the victim of a very vicious glare, and felt very confused. He had expected a Crucio, maybe even an attempt at an Avada Kedavra. Then he realized, feeling rather unintelligent, that perhaps Voldemort wouldn't dare harm his own body.

And that thought made him straighten his back and paint an infuriating, Gryffindor grin across his face.

Tom snarled, somehow managing to emulate the darkness that had made greater men cry for mercy in the Boy-Who-Lived's lanky, underfed body. Red eyes, flickering during certain instances to emerald green, hardened as the Dark Lord hissed in parseltongue: "_This is impossible. The ritual I undertook demanded my physical self be forever damaged as a sacrifice. The only way this could have— The only way he could have—"_

He froze, eyes widening as he turned with lightning speed to meet his sixteen year old reflection. That was the way he had been before he had made his first horcrux.

"_No._"

Tom felt panic consume his body as he pulled at his hair in desperation. Mortal. Pain. Suffering. _Weakness._ He was back to where he had started. Just another pathetic human being; a time bomb ticking away until his last moment on earth was reached and he died. Immortality gone…lost…

_Stolen_.

Teeth bared, he turned his frenzied gaze to that cursed body—that cursed mortal body—and attacked, fists flying. Normally, Tom never would have contemplated harming his own body, but vengeance consumed his rational thought: he wanted to make the soul living in his former body _suffer _ for what he had done, to make him _scream_, to make him _beg _for mercy, no matter the cost.

Harry received the screaming body with a sharp exhalation of pain before he responded, fighting tooth and nail to protect himself. Even though the body the Dark Lord was very lanky (it was without any bulk that could do significant damage) the body Harry currently inhabited was just as lanky and they were both quite tall.

Thus, the punches, and the kicking commenced, both boys rolling around on the floor as they struggled to dominate and subordinate And someway midst beating the life out of each other, both couldn't help but notice, that although magic could be used to solve their desires just as easily, there was something infuriatingly, annoyingly gratifying about being able to wrap your hands around the neck of the one whom you hated the most in the world.

"_I've done you a favor,_" Harry hissed, spitting blood out of his mouth as he avoided another blow to the stomach. "_You weren't even human_."

Tom was too angry to realize that the other boy was speaking parseltongue, automatically responding in the same language. "_I am not _meant _to be human! Lord Voldemort is eternal…invincible. Death is an obstacle on the path to such greatness!_"

Harry went crashing to the floor when the Dark Lord managed to sweep his legs from under him; clearly the half blood had grown up in an area where it was necessary to learn how to defend oneself, just as Harry had.

Rolling over, Harry replied, "_You weren't great. You were insane. You were a _monster."

He lunged, and Tom howled when the other boy managed to draw blood with a swipe of his nails. Taking advantage of his momentary agony, Harry pinned his hands behind him, their cut hands and blood mingling.

"_Death is a natural course of life,_" Harry hissed forcefully into his ear,"_and if you can't accept that, then you are the greatest coward I have ever met._"

Tom turned to reply, eyes flashing dangerously, when suddenly the place where their bloods mingled began to burn. Both yelped at the unexpected pain, struggling to pull away from each other, but found that they couldn't. They were fused together by some invisible force.

"What did you do?" Harry demanded, still pulling furiously.

But Tom wasn't listening to him. Instead, he watched as their blood entwined together, creating a violent, sense of friction between them.

The burning faded away within a couple of seconds, however, and with great relief, Harry found that he could pull away.

"What happened?" Harry demanded, somehow sensing that the other had understood what had happened.

Tom looked very pale, and gazed at their hands in abject horror, as though unable to contemplate what had just occurred before him. When Harry shook him forcefully, the other half-blood merely looked at him with an unreadable face.

"Voldemort!" Harry cried, beginning to get angry once more, "What the hell happened!"

Tom gave a mirthless smile—a ghastly, tortured expression—and opened his mouth to explain...

And then they both woke up.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"Bloody hell!" Harry cursed, clutching his head as he regained consciousness. He found himself once again on the floor, this time on the Malfoy's large library.

And that damn snake was still around his neck.

Filled with an urgent need to just _get the disgusting thing off_, Harry pulled at Nagini and tossed her into one of the book shelves. The snake hissed in protest—and while during any other time Harry might have stayed to contemplate his recent penchant for violence—he ignored the hissing wails and stalked out of the library and down the halls.

He couldn't even begin to comprehend what was happening. Harry had obviously ascertained that he and Voldemort had switched bodies, but what about their souls? How had Harry been able to undergo the reconciliation process on Voldemort's behalf? And that pounding was still in his head, almost like it had been when he had had a piece of Voldemort's soul in him…except ten times worse.

Harry slammed open yet another door, searching for an exit from the damned labyrinth of a mansion, only to find the Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy delicately sipping tea in their king-sized mansion of a bed. Ignoring the shocked expressions on the their faces—though he had to admit, he did enjoy the scandalized expression on Mrs. Malfoy's face as she struggled to preserve her 'modesty'—he blasted a hole in the wall opposite to them and stalked through the make-shift exit until he was outside the wards.

Paying no attention to exclamations from inside the mansion, Harry contemplated how he was going to get the answers he required. Dumbledore, unfortunately, wasn't an option, at least not in his current form. The headmaster would no doubt recognize Tom Riddle in an instant, and act first before thinking later. Plus, his trust in the old man had greatly decreased after learning about the horcrux. He wasn't naïve enough to believe that Dumbledore hadn't known anything about it …

Deciding to ponder such things later, Harry focused once more on considering his options. And yet, as he mentally evaluated them, he began to realize that there really ever had been one option. Voldemort.

Voldemort knew what had happened, if his horrified expression had meant anything. And if _Voldemort _was afraid…well, Harry had no idea how to react.

Resigning himself to his fate, Harry grimaced as he closed his eyes and apparated to the front of the fourth house on Privet Drive; he didn't even bother to contemplate how in the world he knew how to apparate, when he had never done so before in his life.

With feet as heavy as lead, he dragged himself to the front door and rang the bell. When no one answered, he rang continuously, impatience getting the better of him. Before he could ring a fifth time, however, the door was pulled open violently.

"Stop that incessant racket, it's two o'clock in the morning!" Aunt Petunia hissed, looking worriedly at the neighboring houses. When she saw him, though, she quickly adjusted her night cap self-consciously and gave him a polite smile. "What can I do for you, young man?"

Harry stared, stunned at his aunt's behavior. If it was indeed two o'clock in the morning, and Harry knew how much his prickly aunt guarded her sleeping time, then she should be screaming at him by all rights. That too, combined with the fact that he was a complete stranger and he was ringing in the middle of the night. But then he noted the slight blush in her cheeks, and the way her brown eyes surveyed him, and he suddenly understood and felt the urge to vomit.

If this was how it felt to be exceptionally good looking, then he would take his old body back any time.

"I am here to see Harry Potter," Harry said with a strained smile. Kidnapping certainly wasn't an option, so why not the old-fashioned ask and tell way?

"Oh," Aunt Petunia replied, drawing back a little. She then surveyed him suspiciously. "What do you want with him? Who exactly are you? Are you one of…one of _that _kind?"

Harry restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "If you mean to ask if I am a wizard, then yes, I am."

"Oh," his aunt repeated again, as if she couldn't possibly comprehend that such a good-looking person could be one of 'that kind'. Then she sneered. "Well, I am sorry, but that boy is a little busy right now. I suggest you talk to him when you get to that freak school of yours."

She made to slam the door shut in his face, but Harry halted the action with his foot, holding the door in place and preventing her from moving it any further. "Mrs. Dursley, so far I have been perfectly polite and cordial. I would hate to be forced to use _other _methods in order to get what I desire."

Aunt Petunia gulped, a slight sheen of nervous sweat on her pale, clammy face. Harry finally deigned to remove the sickeningly charming smile from his face and glared at her. "Just bring him down, woman."

She gave a frightened squeak, and hurried up the stairs, her ridiculous night gown trailing a foot behind her as she clambered up. After a minute, she came back down, dragging a cursing reflection of himself down the stairs.

* * *

Tom glared at the bony hand dragging him down the stairs. He had literally only just come to from that horrific nightmare of mental reality, when the door to his room had been slammed open and he had been bodily dragged from his poor excuse of a bed.

He gazed at the frightened expression on the Boy-Who-Lived's aunt's face, before following to see where her scared gaze was directed…and met the familiar gaze of his sixteen year old self.

"_Potter_," Tom hissed in parseltongue, so that the woman wouldn't understand. Hatred immediately consumed him, and the memories of what exactly had occurred on that mental plane flooded his brain once more, turning his vision red with rage.

"_Voldemort,_" Potter hissed back, before a look of confusion came over his face. "_How is this possible? How can I still speak parseltongue, when I no longer have a piece of your soul?_"

Tom restrained himself from roaring in fury, and turned to look at the horse-faced woman. "Get out," he snarled furiously, green eyes glowing red. With a small shriek, Petunia Dursley fled back to her bedroom and locked the door behind her.

Tom turned his attention back to Potter, red eyes still glowing. "You have no idea how much I wish to kill you."

"Actually," Potter murmured, "I probably do. What the hell happened, Voldemort?"

Tom's face contorted viciously as he reached out to strangle that damned, infernal, boy once and for all. "You took it from me! My immortality…_gone_…_lost_!"

"I thought we already covered this," Potter exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air, "Your soul has been rejoined. I am the cause. You got angry at me because of that. I got angry because I think you're better off this way. So naturally, we attacked each other, got a few punches in, and exacted retribution like good, civilized folk. Now…_what happened after that_?"

Tom wasn't able to restrain himself any longer, despite knowing better. He wandlessly directed a Cruciatus Curse at the Boy-Who-Lived, and wasn't all too surprised when the spell fizzed out and died before it ever reached him. It was only confirmation of what he had already known.

"What the _hell _was that?" Harry gasped, looking at the spot where the green lightning streak had died out.

"I cannot harm you!" Tom yelled in frustration, "Just as before…You have caused me endless torture, _fifteen years of it_, and yet I only receive a couple of months to exact vengeance?"

"Divine retribution?" Potter suggested innocently. Tom was once again consumed by the irrational urge to curse him—even though he knew he couldn't—but restrained himself this time.

"What happened?" Potter persisted irritatingly, "You know, don't you?"

"And what will you give me in return for such information, Potter," Tom asked calculatingly, after a long pause. He evaluated the tall figure in front of him with narrowed green eyes.

"Voldemort," Potter began dryly, "We're stuck in each other's bodies, and neither of us knows how to reverse it (if one of us did, we would be reversed by now). As such, we are both in positions where we can cause unlimited and irreversible damage…and thus, in no position where we can even _begin _to bargain with each other. Don't try to trick me; contrary to popular belief, I am _not _an idiot."

Tom scowled, wondering when the boy before him had gotten so infuriatingly intelligent. From all the reports he had received from Severus, Harry Potter was a 'dunderhead who had only survived due to sheer luck and the superior capabilities of those around him'. And yet, that was clearly not the person he saw in front of him.

"So what exactly are you suggesting?" Tom sneered. He leaned his lanky frame back against the wall, tilting his head back and baring his neck in a primitive taunt.

"Whether we like it or not, we are inexorably tied together at the moment," Potter stated urgently, ice blue eyes glinting sharply; Tom had to restrain himself from snorting at how maudlin _that _sounded. "And, we're both in deep shit. We are too vulnerable, and out greatest enemies are ourselves. If we take a…_hiatus_ from our ongoing attacks, then we can adjust things back to normal—where we're comfortably back in our own bodies with identities intact—after which point, we can presume to attack each other—not personally, as we have figured out that harming each other is somewhat impossible—until our hearts are content with all the 'glorious' bloodshed."

"You want," Tom repeated slowly, green eyes narrowed, "you want me to halt a _war_? I will not indulge your fancies merely because you're unwilling to take the battle to another level, you foolish boy. I find that we are in fairly equal positions, all things considered. You do damage in my body; I do damage in your body."

In an instant, Potter summoned a gleaming knife from the kitchen and held it against his own neck. "I don't know what this will do." Potter breathed, "But I am sure as hell that it will cause grievous problems for you, if we are in fact so bloody interconnected. The difference, _Tom_, is that I am able and willing to do this. I can sacrifice myself. You can't. I can kill this _mortal _body at any moment; whereas, I doubt you're suicidal in the slightest. You would never risk killing yourself to stop me. So, 'all things considered', I have leverage over you and am now graciously willing to call a truce that will benefit _you_."

Tom raised his eyebrow, impressed despite himself. He had always considered Harry Potter to be an annoying puppet, a figure that had been controlled behind the scenes by someone else…Dumbledore. But now, it was apparent that someone else had risen to take Dumbledore's place; or—an even more interesting possibility—another position altogether had been created on the field. Tom knew Dumbledore, knew that he could defeat him easily now in his current state of mind (sane). But who exactly was Harry Potter?

An unknown variable.

* * *

Harry looked hard at Voldemort. He knew that trying to rationalize with an insane Voldemort was like trying to get Dudley to start dieting, but surely a sane Voldemort—_Tom Marvolo Riddle_, really—would respond to sound logic?

"I dislike being in someone else's debt," Tom stated softly, after a long silence. The Dark Lord looked up, and Harry saw his own green eyes look back at him, darkening dangerously. "Especially with how…_tempestuous _magic is between the both of us, as though with a mind of its own. I have no doubt that it would solidify the debt and bond us even further in some other twisted manner, if I were to accept your 'gracious' offer. Hence, Potter, I will offer you information on what happened between the two of us, and in exchange, we will call this truce and seek to find a solution to this mess. Is that _agreeable _to you?"

Harry nodded firmly, and waited for the information to come with an expectantly raised eyebrow.

Tom surveyed him with a cool gaze before stating bluntly, "We are adélfia ti̱s psychí̱s. The bond had been…_cemented_ when our blood intermingled."

Harry gazed at him blankly. "…And what is that?"

"Don't you have at least a rudimentary knowledge of Greek?" the Dark Lord demanded condescendingly. Harry couldn't restrain a smirk, half expecting Voldemort to begin chanting the woes of modern education.

"It means brothers of the soul," Tom explained with a sneer.

"And what exactly does that entail?" Harry asked slowly, struggling to keep his temper.

"It means," Tom answered through gritted teeth, "that I cannot kill you, punch you, stab you, curse you, pinch you, or even pull one innocent hair off your damned innocent head."

"That sounds…surprisingly nice, _and_ very convenient for me." Harry began, before frowning slightly, "And I assume that I am restrained from the doing the same to you."

"As if you could anyway, even without the bond." Tom snapped, green eyes flickering crimson, "At least _I _had potential."

Harry waved his hand dismissively. "You had fifteen years, Voldemort. But you still haven't quite explained what adélfia ti̱s psychí̱s is."

"Its origins trace back to Greek mythology," Tom lectured in a cool tone, "apparently, when Artemis and Apollo had gotten into one too many disruptive fights over their father's favor, Zeus bonded their souls so that they would never be able to harm each other again. I am not aware of the full consequences of such a bonding, but historically, other members of such a bond recall a burning sensation between their blood after physically harming each other. After that, there were never able to harm each other again. I always thought it was an old wives' tale…I seem to be making that error too often."

"So our souls are connected..." Harry concluded with a tortured expression. "My soul is connected to the man who murdered my parents...once again."

"Once again?" Tom questioned, face emotionless.

Harry realized with shock that Tom still didn't know the truth. "I…at one point, I had a piece of your soul in me,"—he then added hastily—"And now our souls, if I understand correctly, are connected, so killing me is still counter-intuitive, in addition to now being impossible."

"_How…" _the Dark Lord hissed in parseltongue, before his green eyes widened in realization."When I tried to kill you when you were a baby…That's why you could speak parseltongue…why you _can _speak parseltongue…_the souls_."

"Right," Harry muttered, slightly uncomfortable with the piercing gaze that was now directed his way.

"If this is like a horcrux," Tom murmured, green eyes hardening, "then our souls being connected makes us both vulnerable. I suspect that if one of us dies, then the other dies as well."

"Oh, that's _not _so convenient," Harry grimaced, the full truth dawning him suddenly. But then he sneered. "So my bluff was actually true!"

"You were bluffing before?" Tom growled, green eyes glowing red.

"Not about the killing myself part," Harry admitted, "merely the part where there would be grievous consequences for you."

"In any case," Tom stated slowly, "I believe that it would be in our best interests if we stay near each other. And whatever you decide, you should know that there is no way I am placing my life in the hands of a temperamental fifteen year-old without any supervision."

"You're calling _me _temperamental," Harry scoffed, examining the Dark Lord in front of him; _his_ mood swings fluctuated about as often as a roller coaster and just as drastically as well. "I don't _need _any supervision. If you've forgotten, I am currently the Dark Lord. And being who you are, you're most probably going to be attacked by _my _death eaters. I can't exactly call them back without revealing myself."

"Actually, I won't be in any danger." Tom replied, examining him with cold eyes, "The death eaters have been assigned to retrieve the prophecy made by Sybil Trelawney. It concerns both of us, and as I have told them, will help to bring about the destruction of both you and Dumbledore. They will not be attacking me, so you _will _be staying with me. As you have already proven, you—unlike I—_are _fairly suicidal, and I intend to keep a watch on you."

"Prophecy?" Harry repeated, eyebrows furrowed, ignoring the 'suicidal' part for now. He tried to find any plausible reason for him to stay away, before finally sighing in defeat. "Very well. For _now_, I will stay with you, but only because you'll probably forcibly make me stay anyways, given the fact that I don't have a decent rebuttal to convince you otherwise."

"That would be an accurate assumption," Tom replied with a smirk, brushing back his messy black hair in an elegant gesture.

Harry hesitated, before asking with a slight nauseous sensation in his stomach: "About that adélfia ti̱s psychí̱s thing…the 'brothers of a soul'?"

"Yes?"

"That…that doesn't have anything to with…_you know_…like, soul mates and stuff?"

There was a long silence, in which Harry managed to believe that he had somehow frozen the Dark Lord permanently. Stupefied him into a permanent state of shock. Brought him down by the fatal blow of surprise.

Tom looked like he had swallowed something revolting. Finally, he managed to get out in a hoarse voice, "Why would you…_ever…_presume…As you may recall, Apollo and Artemis were brother and sister, and although the Greek Gods did commit incest, Artemis vowed to be a maiden. Romantic relations were _never _a result of the adélfia ti̱s psychí̱s. You can be…_assured_ that I will never attempt to enforce such a relationship with you. Nor with anyone else. _Ever_. As if a Dark Lord would ever stoop to such a level. Our purposes are infinitely above such things."

Harry let out a sigh of relief, but couldn't help the mocking laughter that released itself from his lips. "So you're a prude."

Harry flinched as Tom's hands wrapped themselves around his neck in a quick movement, not harming him, but the threat blatantly clear. "Careful, Potter," the Dark Lord hissed, leaning close, so that Harry met his blazing red eyes directly. In stark contrast, the hold on his neck was almost gentle. "You may be safe for now, but I am not called the Dark Lord for nothing. If there is a way out of this bond, I will find it. And there most certainly _will_ be; magic itself demands balance. There will be something that can destroy this."

"Besides," Tom said after a short pause, leaning back with a cold smirk on his face. "I prefer the term asexual."

"Of course," Harry muttered, eying him through narrowed ice blue slits. With a grand bow and a mocking smile, he gestured him to return back up the stairs. "After you."

Tom gave him one last crimson glance, before proceeding up the stairs. Harry followed behind, a slight smile on his lips…but it didn't reach his eyes. While this version of Voldemort _seemed _more benign—in the sense that he wasn't killing random people because of voices in his head and screaming bloody murder in order to release inner angst—he had seen the cruelty and chilling intelligence in his eyes in that one moment. Despite his charming and young facade, Tom Marvolo Riddle was still cool, calculating, and definitely the man who had murdered his parents in cold blood.

If anything, he was even more dangerous than Voldemort, if only because he could hide it.

**Hello folks! So, I am really surprised by how many people have chosen to follow this story! Thank you so much. Please, please, please review: I welcome all criticisms, compliments, and random remarks, and I really enjoy hearing your thoughts. It should be known that I have been instructed to become a 'slave to this story', so I shall endeavor to update as soon as possible ;) madstory999**


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